Wings of Treachery
by zipscool
Summary: In 2017 the east Osean Continent is suddenly and violently engulfed in war as the fascist Tri-Coalition of Recta, Wielvakia and Nordlands launches a surprise invasion of Ustio, Sapin and Ratio. Xander Black, call sign 'Spartan' is the only survivor of his squadron, and must help his homeland and its allies forge a path through the clash, but will the price of victory be worth it?
1. Fly or Die

**I've wanted to do something on this incredible series for a while, so I did.**

**Enjoy.**

**Wings of Treachery**

**Chapter One: Fly or Die**

The bird rolled and banked before finally levelling as it fought to catch up to the rest of its flight. Seven F-16 aircraft flew in a flawless V formation a little way ahead of it, their metal frames glinting in the sunlight. It was a beautiful day, with only a light smattering of clouds with temperatures read at 24 degrees centigrade. Perfect beach weather, and once the training exercise was over, Warhawk Flight was taking a trip to the shoreline. Even the new guy – one Flying Officer Xander Black – was going.

From his cockpit in his own bird, Black had a panoramic view: the Spring Sea seemed to stretch out endlessly on one side, while the other offered a view of his homeland of Ratio that, a little more than a century before, only birds were treated to. All that time in flight school and the views he saw when he was up on high still took his breath awa–

'–rhawk Eight, you there? Helllloooo?'

Black blinked and shook his head. Embarrassment ran through him and his face flushed as he realised he'd been so captivated that he'd fallen even further out of formation. The knowledge that he had graduated top of his class and even managed to outfly some of his instructors in Basic _and _Advanced Fighter Manoeuvres didn't go very far with the experienced, accomplished pilots of Warhawk Squadron.

'Sorry sir,' Black said as he tuned into the squadron's private radio frequency, 'just got a little caught up admiring the view.'

'Perhaps 'Spartan' wasn't so suitable after all. Maybe 'Dreamboy' would fit better?' Another of his flight – the ever-humorous Warhawk Three – interjected before the Wing Commander could get a word in. Black heard a few sniggers over the comms, and even as he opened his mouth he knew he'd snagged the bait.

''Dreamboy' huh? Is that envy I'm hearing over there? It's not my fault I was blessed with ravishingly good looks while you were cursed with a butt-chin, Three.' Black riposted; grinning through his flight mask as full blown laughter crowded up the comms.

'All right that's enough clowning around Eight,' Warhawk One commanded, though Black smirked as he detected a note of humour in his otherwise rock-solid tone, 'get your arse back into formation pronto before I call home and find you something to do when we land.'

'Absolutely sir,' Black responded, dialling down the personality as he shifted his F-16 around so as to slide himself neatly back into formation with his squadron.

'It's not a butt-chin…' he heard Three mutter.

'Three, I said can the chatter!' Warhawk One demanded. 'We'll be resuming combat exercises as soon as the Smart Alec lagging behind graciously decides to rejoin us. Same drill as it was before: two flights, tone signifies a kill.'

There was a brief pause before Warhawk One spoke up again. 'The losing flight has to buy the first round of drinks when he hit the beach tonight.'

That brought a chorus of cheers and cat-calls among the pilots who made up Warhawk Squadron. Black smiled as he eased on the throttle, bringing his bird ever closer to the formation.

'Okay Eight, I'd say you're about close enough. Three, since you two seem so close, you can have the new kid mark your wing, Five and Six, you'll join them.' Black raised a brow but broke squelch once to indicate that he'd heard, understood and would carry out the order.

'Fantastic,' Three said, injecting a note of sarcasm into his voice before turning his attention to Black. 'Think you can keep up this time rookie?'

'I'll just follow the pilot with the enormous chin, can't miss it even from back here.' Black replied.

'What sort of grudge against my face did you wake up with this morning?' Three asked in an exasperated manner.

Black was about to reply with another crack when Warhawk One suddenly interrupted.

He didn't sound happy.

'All right, which one of you jokers decided it'd be funny to gain a lock on me before I gave–'

He was abruptly cut off when a missile suddenly streaked out from behind a cloud and slammed into the middle of his bird. The following explosion tore Warhawk One's plane in half and it fell to the sea in two burning, smoking halves.

The shockwave from the explosion buffeted the craft closest to him, and Warhawks Two and Three found themselves fighting for control even as their instruments screamed that someone out there had a missile lock on them. Warhawk Three managed to pull his plane back up and narrowly avoided the AMRAAM warhead that streaked towards him from the same vector the first missile had struck from.

Warhawk Two wasn't nearly as lucky.

Another AMRAAM missile burst from the passing cloud and exploded on the underside of Warhawk Two's plane, cooking off all six of his own missiles which then ignited the fuel.

The result was catastrophic.

Confusion reigned as the surviving Warhawks broke formation, each one shouting and yelling.

'Did you _see _that?!'

'Warhawk One's down!'

'I didn't see a chute! Did you?'

'Two's down! Christ above I think all his munitions went off at once!'

'Was that a missile? Who the hell fired a missile?!'

'What the hell is going on?'

It was Black – furthest away from the sudden, inexplicable carnage – who retained enough of his wits to answer the last, and arguably most vital, question.

'My radar's picked up unknown signatures, IFF's bouncing… holy shit how did they get this close without anyone seeing them?'

Black's radar displayed _eight _incoming unknowns, and if his gut instincts were on the money then they were behind the sudden murder of two of his fellow pilots. Then there was another blip, and another, and yet more appeared until there were no less than twenty-eight bandits on an intercept vector. Black's disbelief turned into gut-wrenching terror. _Twenty-eight hostiles?!_

A sharp warning blared into life, letting Black know that one or more of those incoming bandits had a lock on him. Warhawk Squadron was still reeling from the attack, and two missiles struck the frame of Warhawk Five's bird, blowing it to chunks. Black didn't see a chute and felt his heart sink as despair overtook him.

The despair, however, soon vanished, replaced by a blazing fury that threw off his indecision and had him turn sharply in the direction of the foe.

'Warhawk Eight, engaging,' he snarled as he snagged a radar lock on the closest of the bandits. In his rage he almost fired, but held off at the last second, realising that they would pass each other in moments and if he fired, the missile would only career aimlessly into the distance. He had two AIM-7 Sparrows on his wingtip hardpoints and six AIM-9 Sidewinders on the under-wing rails, and five-hundred and eleven rounds for the M61 Vulcan cannon. If he was cautious–

His train of thought was rudely interrupted by another missile alert warning, and Black threw his bird into a sharp dive, bracing himself against the G-Forces that assailed him on the sudden manoeuvre. The alert kept squawking though, and Black forced himself to deploy countermeasures.

'Deploying chaff,' he intoned through the comms, and sure enough, the alert ceased. He was now coming up behind an Su-34 which suddenly launched a warhead that streaked towards another Warhawk craft. Black bellowed in denial as the missile struck its target, impacting against the fuselage before detonating, sending another Warhawk screaming to the sea.

The rage that overtook him at the almost casual ease with which the enemy pilot had butchered his squadmate was so great that he forgot to indicate that he had fired a missile of his own. He got a tone on the Fullback fighter-bomber and launched a Sidewinder. The missile danced through the air and it was only at the last second that the Fullback jinked to evade, as if the pilot hadn't registered that he'd been spiked.

Too bad for him, Black thought maliciously as the warhead detonated almost directly on the other plane's tail, blowing both of its engines. The fighter-bomber dropped gracelessly earthwards, much to Black's satisfaction.

'Splash one,' he crowed as he began to think on his next victim, spotting a turning F-15 close enough for him to make out the colours painted on its wing. _Rectan? _The knowledge puzzled him. _What on Earth are they doing here shooting down Ratian aircraft?_

He pushed the knowledge to the back of his head. The brass could figure out the 'why' when he and what remained of his squadron were home safe. Even as he thought that though, another F-16 was pitched from the sky, its frame riddled by cannon fire.

'Switching to guns,' Black told no one in particular as he pitched himself into a turn that would, ideally, take him cutting across the intended flight path of the fighter. The scissoring manoeuvre worked like a charm; as Black pitched his bird into a sharp turn he saw the F-15 come racing into a turn of its own, it had spotted one of the few survivors of Warhawk trying to pull away from the frenzy.

'Gotcha, you son of a bitch,' he said with a grimace as the F-15 cut right across his flight path. Black opened fire, and the cannon stitched a jagged line of holes in the airframe. The craft juddered before sharply losing altitude and spiralling earthwards. Seconds later, the canopy popped and the pilot ejected.

No sooner had he downed the bandit when the alert blared into life, alerting him that someone had his number. Cursing his single-mindedness in pursuing the F-15 he pulled his F-16 into a daring loop that proved to be just enough to escape the missile. The alert dialled down in pitch and frequency, but it still remained, meaning he hadn't lost his pursuer just yet.

At that moment he had a thought. It was crazy and more than a little stupid, but if he could pull it off…

_No, I _will _pull it off, _he thought firmly. Fresh determination surged through him and he pulled his plane up and lit his afterburners. He shot up like a shell from a cannon, his altimeter was flying through numbers: 15,000 feet; 20,000; 25,000; 30,000.

Then the alert shrieked with increased intensity. Another missile.

_I'd better pray this is enough._

Black deployed the air brakes and felt a sudden lurch as his speed dropped. As he slowed he canted his plane to the side. To anyone observing, it would have looked as though the fighter had been given a soft nudge from an invisible hand. The missile streaked past, avoiding Black by the narrowest of margins.

His pursuer, an F-14 Tomcat, blasted past him mere moments later, reacting far too slowly to stay on Black's tail. A burst of gunfire tore his engines to shreds; momentum, however, kept him climbing for a few scant metres before the fighter listed gracefully and began to plummet towards the sea. As with his last kill, Black saw the canopy blow and the pilot shoot out seconds later to escape the wrecked bird.

An F-16 flashed right in front of him; a Warhawk. The pilot – and Black didn't know which one of them it was – had pulled his fighter into a spin trying to shake off two bandits on his tail, another F-15 and a PAK FA T-50 with three snarling wolf's heads emblazoned on its tail. Black forced his own fighter into a tight turn in order to help out his squadmate, feeling the G-forces tug on him. He braced himself as much as he was able but even then he still felt like he was about to lose his lunch.

Finally though he settled into a pursuit vector, and his first shot, one of the Sidewinders, gained a lock on the F-15. He launched, but the enemy pilot deployed counter-measures and the heat-seeker dived in the direction of the flare shot out from Black's prey. Black kept his lock though, the pilot of the F-15 seeming unsure as to whether he wanted to shoot down the F-16 ahead of him or break away to attempt to avoid being roasted.

He eventually made the smart choice, but by then Black had pulled in close enough to unleash another barrage of gunfire that rent the frame of the fighter to scrap. Black didn't watch the stricken plane drop, he switched instantly to the T-50 pursuing his fellow pilot, who was doing his utmost to lose his foe but the stealth fighter was sticking on his tail like superglue.

Out of desperation, the F-16 attempted a feint to the left before powering to the right.

The T-50 wasn't fooled.

Even before the F-16 had started pulling into its evasive turn the T-50 was on him. An AA-11 Archer missile on its wing root fired and screamed towards the F-16. Black roared a warning through his comms to the Warhawk–

–but he was far too late.

The missile burst scant centimetres above the cockpit, shredding the front of the plane and the pilot inside. The rear end of the fighter flipped over and fell towards the sea. A thousand metres below him, the last remaining other pilot of Warhawk squadron was dashed from the sky as his plane collided with a circling F-14, killing both pilots and the weapons operator of the F-14. He scored two kills on the squadron of F-15s before physical exhaustion caused him to make the most costly mistake he'd ever make. The act left Flying Officer Xander Black the only survivor of Warhawk Squadron.

Black, however, saw and knew none of this.

All he saw was the T-50 that had shot down one of his squadron with almost contemptuous ease. When he looked back on it, he'd realise that the sudden, single-minded hatred he held for the plane and the pilot inside was irrational, and could easily have cost him his life. At that moment though, he wanted nothing more than to see that fighter die, and he didn't much care how. All that mattered was that it burned.

Black lit his afterburners and screeched after the T-50 with murder in his eyes, he quickly gained a lock and launched a Sidewinder. The T-50 dived, the Sidewinder hot on his heels and gaining quickly. The pilot either didn't have any flares, or didn't think to use them. _More fool him then, _Black thought hungrily as the missile inched towards the diving fighter, which drew ever closer toward the waves of the Spring Sea.

Then, when the plane was barely a couple of hundred metres from dashing itself against the water, it suddenly slowed. Scant moments later its pilot threw it into a sudden, sharp twisting turn and fired its engines, launching it skyward.

The Sidewinder pulled up sharply but wasn't fast enough, and it sailed uselessly past the stealth fighter. The bird yawed to the right a fraction, lining the missile up in its sights, and opened up with its guns. Several bullets struck the missile and, incredibly, knocked the missile from the skies without detonating it. For a moment, Black's rage abated, and he was overcome by awe for the skill, the sheer _audacity _for not only avoiding the missile, but to shoot it down without killing himself.

The T-50 pulled up and away from Black, actually heading _away_. He blinked, and his bloodlust ebbed away as he realised he might have left himself completely exposed to attack in his pursuit of the Cerberus plane. Checking his radar, he was both relieved and confused to see that the mess of hostiles was beginning to pull away from the airspace, heading east, out into the sea.

'What on earth…' Black murmured to himself. As far as he knew there was nothing out there, not even the Ratian Second Fleet which patrolled the Ratian coast almost religiously. Did they have a carrier out there somewhere? Black watched the Rectan planes fly away. A flight of four PAK FA T-50s, all with snarling Cerberus heads, led the formation, and Black felt a twinge of satisfaction in noting that, of the twenty-eight blips he'd picked up at the start of the melee, he could only make out eighteen planes moving away from the combat site. His squadron had given them a bloody nose at least.

The thought of the rest of Warhawk brought a chill to the young pilot; he hadn't heard so much as a peep from the rest of his squadron the entire time. He checked the radar but it showed nothing but the retreating blips of the Rectan birds. Frantic, he turned his F-16 into a turn and surveyed the airspace by sight, but he saw nothi– no, wait! There! Aircraft approaching at his Nine O'Clock! They didn't seem to be on an intercept vector so they had to be friendly, maybe it was the survivors of Warhawk. _They must have slipped the net and come back for me, _he thought joyously as the IFF confirmed that the oncoming craft were indeed allies.

His spirits were quickly and abruptly crushed, however, when he realised that, although the approaching aircraft were indeed friendly, there were far too many of them, and none of them were F-16s. His radio suddenly squawked into life and Black heard a clear, commanding voice on the other end of the line.

'This is Air Commodore Nigel Griswold, call sign 'Raven Eye' to the lone Warhawk pilot, what is your status, over?'

_Lone Warhawk pilot…_

Black felt numbness spread through him. His squadron was dead. He'd been a part of them for all of a week, but he felt the sudden loss of all seven of his squadron as keenly as if he'd known them all his life.

'I repeat: this is Air Commodore Nigel–'

'Sorry… I heard you,' Black responded morosely. He took a deep breath and realised that he felt exhausted now that the adrenaline was being flushed from his system. He took one last look at the retreating Rectan planes, and made a mental note to remember the flight of T-50s bearing the Cerberus heads. He wanted to pay them back for what they'd helped perpetrate… oh yes he did.

'This is Flying Officer Xander Black, call sign 'Spartan', flying as Warhawk Eight… I'm tired sir. And my squadron…'

'Ah, you're still in one piece… listen Warhawk, I'm sorry about your squadron and the fact that we're so late in getting here we couldn't even catch the tail end of this thing, but we're going to need you to pull yourself together.'

A flush of anger overtook him and before he could stop himself he was shouting down the microphone at a man who could easily drum him out of the air force if he so much as coughed the wrong way at him.

'What the hell _was _this?! This was supposed to be a training exercise and it turned into a bloody _slaughter! _The first warning we got was when missiles took out my flight lead and then…' he trailed off as a wave of emotion overtook him and he hitched a sob before he could stop it. Frustration at his own inability to help his squadron and guilt at being the only one to survive blended to create a cocktail of negativity.

To his credit, Raven Eye was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, he didn't seem at all ticked off at the attitude that Black had given him.

'I'm sorry Warhawk, but there was nothing we could do from our end. We only realised there was something going on out here when our radar installations picked up the radio spike that precluded the attack on your squadron. You have my most sincere condolences Warhawk, really, but there is no time to grieve.'

'Those were Rectan planes,' Black said, his voice weary. 'What are Rectan planes doing shooting down Ratian fighters? Just what the hell is going on?'

There was a deep breath on the other end, and Black knew that his bad day was about to get much, much worse.

'Just before your attack we received a communique from the capital… we have had no contact with any of our armed forces close to the border, and the nations of Ustio and Sapin have come under simultaneous assault. The official report followed shortly.

'As of an half an hour ago; we are at war.'

**-X-**

**Precious little is known about the eastern end of the Osean continent (or at least I couldn't find all that much on it), so I figured setting it there would be a neat little way of putting my own spin on the Strangereal world. I'm going to model the Ratian air force after the British RAF (they even have the same acronym, how awesome is that?) albeit with some minor differences, and this decision stems mostly from a memory of reading a discussion somewhere that Ratio could be Strangereal's equivalent of Britain.**

**And for those of you who might be confused as to the protagonist's name; it's pronounced 'Zahn-der', as in 'Alexander' without the 'Ale'.**


	2. Sortie

**So **_**Infinity**_** has hit the PSN store. It's a bit of a mixed bag if I'm honest. On the one hand, it's more Ace Combat, and it plays as fantastically as every Ace Combat game has (even Assault Horizon, DFM and dodgy helicopter gunner missions excluded). There are plenty of references to past games and the soundtrack is as standout as it ever is.**

**The main problem, however, is the 'fuel' system driving its F2P mechanic. I won't go into that too much, you can look that up yourselves if you don't know about it already, but I really don't think that this is much of a system. If you're a casual player with not much time on his hands, it'll probably be fine, but for those others who want to rack up those credits and get your hands on additional aircraft, well unless you're willing to shell out (or you get lucky with some challenges and earn a free fuel drop), you'll be in for a bit of a grind.**

**There's also not all that much game, with only 5 singleplayer missions available at the moment, with 3 coming sometime soon with the promise of more, and only 5 MP modes (though occasionally in the middle of one of these you might find a boss shows up, such as the Scinfaxi from 5). As I've said, it plays well, but for the amount of time spent on this, there simply isn't enough to it, which I suppose makes it a good thing that it's free to download and free to play (unless you don't want to wait 12 hours), because if it wasn't, I don't honestly think I could recommend it at all.**

**What I'd suggest then, is that you keep an eye on it. The fuel and credit system is no doubt here to stay, which blows, but maybe with a few solid, meaty updates it'll hopefully become a game more worthy of your attention.**

**Anyway, I've ranted long enough, on with the story.**

**Also in regards to your review Lord Jaric: the use of apostrophes instead of quotation marks to indicate speech is how I've been taught to use it. Sorry if that throws you off.**

**Wings of Treachery**

**Chapter Two: Sortie**

'Five years ago, there was a war.

'Not a war that we were particularly involved with, or all that concerned with for that matter, though we did the whole 'we cannot condone your actions' song and dance routine that so many nations have done over these tumultuous past decades. It was the Anean Continental War. Estovakia versus Emmeria, and for the first few months the Estovakians were winning.

'Then they started to lose ground. All their gains were for naught as the Emmerians pushed back and kept pushing until finally they retook their capital and smashed the source of the cruise missile threat against their people. Hm? The source? That's classified kid.

'Anyway, while this conflict was going on, our northern neighbours of Nordlands and Wielvakia, who have been regular trading partners with the Estovakians since a long time ago – as I'm sure you know – began to experience a crash as the war dragged on in Emmeria's favour. Eventually their economies collapsed altogether, and poor, neighbouring Recta, who traded more frequently with them, suffered the same fate.

'For a while, there was anarchy, I saw things over there that still keep me up at night sometimes. Then, one day, when it seemed like each of these nations might just tip into devastating civil war, three parties rose to prominence. In Recta, they're called the Rectan Workers Party; Nordlands: The Society for the Preservation of Nordlands; Wielvakia: The Wielvakian Nationalist Party. Now if you handed a man a pamphlet from each of those three parties and asked them to differentiate between them, they'd have a pretty tough time.

'You're right, that _is _rather funny, isn't it?

'As I was saying, however, these three parties unified their countries and restored order quickly. They set about creating jobs, getting people back to work, making them feel proud to be Rectan, Nordlandic, Wielvakian, whatever. And if a few people had to disappear to make sure they could afford to pay for their bread, then so what?

'Shortly after their situations stabilised, these three countries came together to declare to the world that they were the staunchest allies, and signed the Tri-Coalition Pact, thereby becoming the Tri-Coalition of Recta, Nordlands and Wielvakia. For a while, things were looking pretty good for them. Reconstruction was well underway, and with each nation cooperating in full their respective industrial strengths practically quadrupled overnight. Makes you wonder what the rest of us could achieve if we were that willing to trust implicitly in our neighbours, huh?

'Anyway I hope you think you've got enough from this old coot, because this little segment of our story's coming to a close. Don't look at me like that, because with the end of this tale, a new one begins, one I imagine a little ripper like you'll find much more interesting. At the dawn of 2017, the Tri-Coalition found itself losing steam. Reconstruction projects were coming to a halt because there wasn't enough going around. They'd used up practically all their natural resources getting themselves back on their feet and now there was nothing left.

'So, how do you think they went about securing resources? Too right you are lad; the War of the Five Nations, or the East-Osean Continental War if you're feeling less dramatic. Despite what you'll no doubt have heard about the northern fascists, I don't really think that they really wanted a war any more than we did. They didn't have much of a choice, and they had a lot of war machines just sitting around gathering dust. To top that off was that Ustio and Sapin's armed forces have been greatly reduced ever since the Belkan conflict more than 20 years before. When those tanks first started rolling across our borders, we were the only ones able to mount any effective defence and even we were hard pressed to defend ourselves…

'At least, until _he _started showing up. Yeah I see that grin on your face girl, and I know the rest of you have been waiting for this as well. This is where I leave the realm of politics and nations, and focus on the individual. To be specific; one young member of the Ratian Air Force; a pilot who struck fear into the enemy simply by dint of his presence on the battlefield; a pilot who sortied out against the encroaching Trike armies no matter the odds; a pilot our own nation worships as a hero and condemns as a traitor at the same time.

'Prick those ears kids; this is the legend of the fighter ace they called "The Spartan".'

**-X-**

Xander Black sat in the briefing room only half listening to Nigel Griswold give the pilots of Dallahs Air Force Base the rundown on the overall situation. The Air Commodore was a short man in his forties, his neat ginger hair conforming to every regulation and an immaculately trimmed moustache perched atop his upper lip. His relatively youthful face looked far more accustomed to easy humour, with laugh lines and gentle grey eyes.

The fact that this humour was utterly and completely absent from his expression informed even those pilots unaware of the whole picture of the gravity of what he was about to tell them.

'I will now explain the situation for those of us here who aren't aware of the situation,' he began. 'Roughly an hour and a half ago, all contact with elements of our armed forces close to the border was lost. That includes border patrols, and the garrisons of Forts Hastings and Nestor up north. Twenty minutes after this, we received various reports from a number of sources both civilian and military that armoured vehicles bearing Wielvakian colours were rolling up on towns a little ways south of these two forts via roads they could only have taken if resistance from the forts was a nonissue.'

He paused, letting the implications sink in before continuing. 'Ten minutes after these reports we received word from our central cabinet: the Tri-Coalition of Wielvakia, Recta and Nordlands has adopted a unanimous policy of open war against us, and the neighbouring principalities of Ustio and Sapin. Already we have word that Ustio is in disarray while Sapin is facing a massive amphibious assault all along its coastline.

'We are currently attempting to open talks with our neighbours in order to perhaps form a coordinated resistance against the invaders. Until then, however, we are very much alone. Now… to business,' Nigel stepped aside as an overhead projector winked into life, displaying a satellite map of north Ratio in between a narrow strip of land where the borders of Sapin and Recta suddenly jutted inward on Ratio.

'We received a communique from our northernmost Air Base that air transports complemented by a handful of escorts are headed south. Each transport carries an assortment of cargo, ranging from troops and weapons to main battle tanks and more valuable equipment that we'll require in the fighting to come. Unfortunately we've detected a significant amount of Tri-Coalition fighters on an intercept vector for these transports. By the time we finish this briefing the escorts will peel off in an effort to delay the fighters but there aren't many of them,' he paused, the assembled pilots said nothing, but each one of them knew the odds of those brave souls making it back alive from that effort were minimal at even the most optimistic guess.

'It'll be up to you then, to ensure that their sacrifice is not in vain. I won't baby you, you're big boys and girls, so I'll tell you now that the coming months will likely demand things of you that you might not be able to give. Despite this, however, give you must, or not just your own families, but all those across Ratio may face great danger and upheaval underneath the boot of Tri-Coalition oppression.'

With that, he gave the room a final look before resting on Xander. 'Prepare to take off immediately. Your planes should already be outfitted. Dismissed.'

Xander waited while the other pilots filed out of the briefing room, a handful giving him curious looks as they left. They'd heard, he had no doubt. Black hadn't stepped more than two paces indoors once he'd landed his F-16 before he'd heard a couple of rushing pilots talk about the lone survivor of Warhawk Squadron.

'You stayed behind,' Griswold stated, matter-of-factly, once everyone else had left, 'why?'

Xander didn't answer. He'd assumed that someone would want to speak with him about what happened over the Spring Sea, and the Air Commodore was among the first on the scene once the bloodbath had ended.

The shorter, older man sighed and pulled up an unfolded steel chair before seating himself upon it. 'Well, it's fine, because I needed to have a chat with you anyway.'

Here it comes, Xander thought.

'Look, with what happened; the unimaginable psychological shock losing your entire squadron might be doing to you; I don't think anyone here would hold anything against you if you didn't go up with the rest of those pilots. In fact, I think they'd _recommend _it. Ultimately, however, the choice is yours, and if you do decide you want to sortie out, we do have a plane waiting for you.'

Xander thought long and hard, mulling over his choices. On the one hand he felt he had a duty to his squadmates to seek out and destroy the cowards behind the surprise attack, and the reality was that, despite his condition, one way or another, this war would surely seek him out soon enough. On the other, he knew well as anyone that the fact that Warhawks One through Seven were all confirmed KIA hadn't quite hit him yet, and though he felt bad already, once the shock set in, coupled perhaps with some survivors guilt, he'd be a mess, and the last place anyone needed that to happen was up in the sky with missiles criss-crossing all over the place. He was also still a little fatigued from flying so desperately not even two hours ago, and a significant part of him wanted nothing more than to sleep this entire shitty day off.

Despite that, despite all of that, he felt himself straighten, his focus sharpen, as he fixed the Air Commodore with his own sharp, amber eyes, and told the man exactly what he wanted.

The Air Commodore's lips tugged into a soft grin, but try as the older man might, he couldn't quite make it reach his eyes. Once he got up there, Griswold would be keeping an especially close eye on him. Xander wouldn't hold a grudge against him for it, he understood.

'Well then,' the ginger man said as he pulled himself to his feet, 'follow me then, and I'll show you what we've pulled out for you.'

**-X-**

The aircraft sat alone from the other scrambling pilots who were even now hoisting themselves into their cockpits and making sure their equipment was all in order. It was an elegant thing, with two sharp canards extending just beneath the cockpit, while just behind these, long, sleek delta wings spread out to give the craft its distinctive profile. Its tail lacked any horizontal stabilisers, relying instead on the flaperons that extended all across the back of the wings. An emblem of a swooping, screaming hawk clad in iron was painted onto the tail, while a larger image of a heavily armoured spearman wearing an ornate Corinthian helmet was proudly emblazoned on the tail.

'That's a Typhoon,' Xander murmured aloud.

'So your eyes still work then, that's generally a good sign,' Griswold cracked; a clever grin on his face. It soon vanished, replaced by a wistful expression.

'There were seven more of these things going to be presented to the rest of Warhawk once you were finished with your exercises this week,' he explained, 'but… well… with all that's happened, the spares will have to be shipped off to another airbase so others can make use of them.'

Xander didn't say anything in response, his gaze and his attention were fixated on the aircraft in front of him. He knew about this particular bird of prey: no thrust vectoring to speak of whatsoever (though Xander knew there were plans by the manufacturer to implement thrust vector nozzles in future designs) but its airframe afforded it a level of mobility that was a cut above that of most previous-generation aircraft, and even a few new ones. Its cockpit was designed with the pilot in mind, with everything a pilot would need to know displayed more or less as soon as you dipped your head a fraction.

Finally was its armament. A Typhoon was a multirole fighter, and its large wing frame afforded it no less than _twelve _hardpoints with which to stick a blisteringly lethal cocktail of ordnance. In the hands of a competent pilot, one Typhoon could carry out operations against land, sea and air targets all in the same sortie without difficulty.

Right now, all twelve hardpoints were outfitted with anti-air missiles; Xander saw eight AIM-132 ASRAAM short range missiles and four MBDA Meteor beyond-visual-range warheads fixed to the underside of his plane, more than enough to carry out an air-to-air engagement. Probably the only thing lacking in terms of firepower was its revolver cannon, which only carried a maximum of a hundred and fifty rounds. While Xander sincerely doubted there was much in the air that could withstand anything more than a couple of shots from that gun, the small ammunition count presented an issue should he find himself out of missiles or bombs.

'So who am I flying with?' Xander asked, finally sounding a little more like himself, his voice a little less shaky.

'You aren't flying with anyone, technically speaking. Effective immediately, you're Warhawk One of Warhawk Squadron,' Griswold caught Xander's expression and raised an arm in a soothing gesture, 'easy there Flying Officer. Usually we _would_ transfer you to another squadron but with the situation the way it is there'd be no efficient way of processing that kind of request. You could end up waiting weeks, months even. The fastest, simplest way for everyone involved would simply be for you to take up the mantle.'

_Simple for everyone except me,_ Xander thought to himself, thinking of his lost squadmates as Nigel continued.

'We'll try and find you some replacements for those poor souls lost, but I don't think I, or anyone else for that matter, are in any position to make any guarantees. For the foreseeable future, I expect you to follow orders, but act under your own discretion… can I trust you to do that?'

Xander gave him the response he wanted to hear, but he was certain the Air Commodore knew that was the case from the way he'd narrowed his eyes ever so slightly at him. Yup, Raven Eye was going to be checking his way every few seconds once he and his AWACS crew were up there monitoring the combat space.

Right now though, that wasn't a concern as he donned his g-suit, made sure his helmet and face mask were both fitted correctly, before stepping into the cockpit. He was surprised at how similar the two were, though Xander immediately appreciated the relative proximity of most of the instruments to each other. Whereas in the F-16, he'd had to move his hands around a little to hit that one switch, the Typhoon's were all within easy reach so as not to prove too distracting to the pilot.

Take-off proved a standard affair of waiting for the control tower to give him the number of the runway to taxi to and waiting for the other fighters to move so he could make the run. Eventually he felt the familiar tug of gravity pulling against him like a jealous lover as he ascended, falling into formation with the forty other aircraft that had taken off from Dallahs Air Force Base, shooting off on a north-west bearing.

'So, Mr Black is it?' came a voice over the radio, male, his accent alone placed him firmly in the upper crust of Ratian society. Xander had heard plenty of jokes that the 'poncy' elite weren't worth a damn in a fight, he guessed he'd find out whether that was true once they reached the combat site.

'Yes,' Xander replied, 'what is it?'

'Huzzah! He _does _speak! That's five quid from you Lacy, ten from you Castle and don't think I've forgotten about your five either Petit,' the pilot called cheerily, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

'Sorry about that dear chap, the gents and I had a little wager going on as to the duration of your muteness,' the voice explained.

'Not much of a wager,' one other pilot grumbled, 'of course he'd speak up if you buzzed him over the comms.'

'Oh hush Castle, keep the attitude and I certainly won't be sharing any of the assorted beverages I'll be splurging on when we return in triumph.'

'What makes you think we'll be doing that?' Came a woman's voice, low and calm, 'what if you get shot down? Care to tell what happens then?'

'Why then some lucky blighter just had the prestige of downing one of the Stuart clan my dear miss Rivers. Oh yes and I suppose people will all be very sad and the three unlucky sods back there will rather get out of having to pay up. I must confess, however, I will probably find the situation most awkward to explain to my ancestors in wherever it is that aviators go when they perish. Did that answer your question, hm?'

Despite himself, Xander found himself grinning ever so slightly as the aircraft blitzed through the clear blue sky. The pilot at the opposite end was warming to him immediately. Part of him wished he could express the same cavalier attitude, but the memory of the brutal conflict was far too fresh in his mind, and true humour eluded him like a whisper on the edge of his tongue.

'Ah dash it all, how very rude of me. Sorry Mr Black, I seem to have left my manners in my bunk along with a great many other things. I am the dashing Flight Lieutenant Charlie Stuart ('Charles' to some, Charlie to others) and currently leading the misfit group of not-quite-as-dashing rogues who make up Crow Squadron. The ever-pleasant voice you heard just then was our very own lady of war Elinor Rivers, heading Sapphire Squadron, whom I believe – if I have this radar thing worked out correctly, and I've no particular reason to doubt myself – you will find just to your left.'

Craning his head sideways, Xander found a squadron of eight F-15C Eagles in a standard arrowhead formation, the wingtips and tails painted blue. A snowflake was painted on the tail of the lead aircraft, and Xander saw the helmeted figure in the cockpit of the craft turn her head in his direction and nod in acknowledgement. Xander returned the gesture after a moment's hesitation before returning his attention to the radio.

'What about you?' Xander asked, 'where can I find you and yours?'

'Ahh,' Charlie said, a note of humour in his sharp, aristocratic voice, 'a better question, considering our craft of choice, would be where _aren't _we? But I understand, and will answer accordingly: if the individual in the lone Typhoon might turn his gaze skyward…' he trailed off.

Xander paused for a moment, unsure if he was suddenly the butt of some joke, but eventually raised his head to look up–

–and found eight F-22 Raptors holding formation what could only have been a scant handful of metres above Xander's Typhoon. He raised his eyebrows; he'd heard a lot about the Raptor, more than a lot of it good.

'Nice,' he said aloud, without actually intending to.

'I'm glad you approve,' Charlie replied smugly. 'Well chaps, now that we have the approval of the man closest among us to earning his ace wings I suppose we need to amp up our game. First one to score three confirmed kills gets to keep the money I earned from the bet.' A chorus of confirmations and affirmations as to what they were going to do with the money upon their return filled the frequency. Xander couldn't help but wonder how much of it was because they were genuinely that certain of their survival or nerves.

'All right, all right, settle down Stuart,' came the voice of Nigel Griswold, aka Raven Eye. Presumably he had boarded his AWACS and was even now on his way to provide up-to-date tactical information on the situation. 'You'll be approaching the transports within minutes, communications from the escort fighters has ceased so I'm afraid we have to assume the worst. Radar contacts are inbound hot on those transports' heels, we need you to keep them alive and airworthy while they flee the airspace, those fighters can't have that much fuel left in them by this point.'

'How many contacts?' the woman leading the squadron of F-15Cs – Elinor – asked, her voice so calm you might have thought she was asking how the weather was.

'At present we have fifty estimated enemy contacts, they may have some stealth fighters mixed in with them though, so expect more,' Griswold stopped for a moment, perhaps checking his own intel on his end to make sure it was correct. 'Okay, you'll be entering the combat airspace momentarily; it'll be TAC names from here on out, copy Jester?'

'Roger that Raven Eye,' Charlie replied.

'Frost?'

'Copy Raven Eye,' Rivers confirmed.

'Spartan?'

It took a moment for Xander to remember that was his own callsign. 'Copy Raven Eye,' he said, before adding: 'sorry, you didn't come in too clear for a second there.'

'Hmm, indeed,' Griswold replied, his tone neutral. Xander knew the Air Commodore wasn't buying his excuse. He was spared the scrutiny of the AWACS, however, when Charlie's voice suddenly filled the comms with excited chatter.

'I've got friendlies on radar! Big bastards and no mistake, that's the transports for sure. They'll pass our formation inside a minute or I'm a goldfish.'

'Hard to tell sometimes with those lips of yours,' one of the pilots from Crow Squadron remarked smarmily. Charlie's retort was hamstrung by Raven Eye calling for all planes to can the chatter.

'I've got a visual on those transports, and I'm getting those contact signatures. Confirmed fifty radar contacts on an intercept vector,' Elinor said.

'All planes prepare for combat. Don't spread out too far and make sure you keep those transports safe. We'll run decryption on their comms and keep you informed of any developments. You are all cleared to engage. Godspeed you lot, and come back safe.'

With that, Griswold cut the line in order to free it up for the incoming chatter the imminent combat would no doubt bring. The eight stealth fighters of Crow Squadron lowered their altitude to fall into line with Xander's craft.

'Well Spartan, what say you do the honour of leading us fresher faces in hm?' Charlie said, phrasing his request as though it was already certain fact.

Xander blinked, and after a moment's delay, found no particular reason to deny the request. It wasn't like he was going to be in direct command; he'd just be taking point.

_And I'll not suffer a single Ratian plane to be blown from the sky if I can help it this time, _he thought.

'All right Jester, Spartan taking the lead. Follow my tail everyone,' he said as he coaxed a little more power out of the Typhoon to pull it ahead of the other Ratian fighters, which, after a second's confirmation with their own squadron leaders, filed into formation behind the only one of their number with any real combat experience. A minute later, the gargantuan transport planes – a mixture of C-17A Globemaster III's, VC10's, Hercules C130J's, and even a couple of TriStar fuel tankers – flew on past.

'Be careful you lot,' one transport pilot advised as they passed on by, 'before he was cut off, one of our escorts said there's a squadron in among the swarm behind us that moves a lot differently from the others. Keep an eye out.'

'Noted transport flight. Don't worry, we'll keep them off you,' Elinor replied.

'Damned straight. Mark my words gentlemen: not a single one of these curs will slip our net,' came Charlie's more enthusiastic reply.

'I can see incoming craft, counting at least fifty-six contacts! There's got to be a flight of stealths mixed in with them,' one pilot called.

'Confirmed Raven Eye: fifty-six visual contacts, but only fifty on radar,' Elinor affirmed, still as cool as ever.

'Well then I'd say it's time for us to show our esteemed foes the exit, wouldn't you?' Charlie cried as he and his seven squadmates lit their burners and accelerated to attack speed. 'Crow Squadron engaging!'

'Sapphire Squadron engaging.'

'Tempest Squadron engaging.'

'Viper Squadron engaging.'

'Revenant Squadron engaging.'

Xander took a handful of deep breaths as he lit his own afterburners and sighted his first target: an F-16 of all things, heading straight for him in a deadly game of chicken.

'Warhawk One engaging,' Xander intoned as he confirmed a missile lock, one of the ASRAAMs. Scant heartbeats later, his own warnings blared into life, informing him that his foe had a lock on him as well.

'Time to fly or die,' he breathed, as he launched the first shot of the engagement.


End file.
